


Lost and Found

by adistraughtthought



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, F/M, First Meetings, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-23 14:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17685206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adistraughtthought/pseuds/adistraughtthought
Summary: Nova chalks it up to shock and sleep deprivation—not to mention a healthy dose of panic and a feral instinct to survive—that has kept all emotions in check so far. While she may not have lost as much at Ostagar as Alistair, her greatest sorrow happened just before she had arrived. The chain of events that led to being spirited away by Duncan was quick enough that she feels she’s outrunning the past just as sure as she’s outrunning the Blight. Not one to look a gift halla in the mouth, she only hopes the future mental breakdown doesn’t come at an inconvenient time.





	1. Chapter 1

Nova Mahariel’s feet ache with every step. It’s not as if she’s never walked this much; she _is_ Dalish, after all. Often while traveling, the older children and adults would take turns walking alongside the aravels as they drifted through the forests. It was both to give the halla a break and to better understand the burden they undertake each time the Dalish move. No, she is no stranger to walking.

What she’s having a hard time with is the Ferelden muck.

It’s been a week of marching since their group left Lothering with two new allies. While it hasn’t been raining on their heads yet, the wide, open fields they traverse are perpetually wet in a way the forests she’s used to never were. The crowded, thirsty trees did much to pull water from the ground, leaving the spongy moss to drink the rest. Nova tortures herself with the memory of stepping on soft moss in just leather foot wrappings, springing up energetically.

Looking down, she laments her feet being encased and trapped within these clunky leather boots. She yearns for the freedom of grass between toes and the feel of tight leather binding high arches. Each step leaves her straining to separate her boots from the mud that threatens to absorb them.

Bodahn gave them the news at sunrise, passed along by a trader who scarcely made it out alive. They had missed the darkspawn horde by a single day. With Lothering burning at their backs, the group has fallen into a quiet introspection.

For Leliana, Nova could guess that the news reinforced her belief in the vision she claims to have had. For Sten, well…she cannot begin to guess at his thoughts. Alistair’s mind has most likely turned to Ostagar and how dire their situation truly is. Morrigan, however, seems only that much more determined to press ahead as quickly as possible.

“We should set camp soon. Unless you wish to lose your shoes, as well as your will…?” Morrigan tilts her head toward Alistair, smugly awaiting a response…and receiving none. Thankfully, Leliana effortlessly smooths over the awkward pause.

“Personally, I would be most pleased to be rid of these hideous boots.” The bard swings each foot high as she walks to show the pair that she had picked off of a bandit two days ago. “Ferelden does not seem to know the difference between fine footwear and dead animal.”

“There is much this country does poorly,” Sten huffs agreeably.

The mabari, meanwhile, whines softly and sticks to the side of Nova’s fellow warden, earning himself a half-hearted scratch behind the ears and a soft, distracted, “Good boy.”

When Morrigan is sure he won’t rise to the challenge, she looks nearly embarrassed. She retreats into her mind, where she needn’t worry about polite conversation, suicide missions, or moping Grey Wardens.

Nova is quiet as well, pulling up a threadbare scarf to protect her long ears from the chill as she analyzes her…superior officer? Fellow warden? She isn’t sure. Alistair was strangely silent all day—or so she thought, anyway. It’s not as if they really knew each other at all. But when they had first met, he was kind and outgoing and joked quite a bit. After, well…it seems to be an uphill battle for him, so far. Not that she can blame him.

Nova chalks it up to shock and sleep deprivation—not to mention a healthy dose of panic and a feral instinct to survive—that has kept all emotions in check so far. While she may not have lost as much at Ostagar as Alistair, her greatest sorrow happened just before she had arrived. The chain of events that led to being spirited away by Duncan was quick enough that she feels she’s outrunning the past just as sure as she’s outrunning the Blight. Not one to look a gift halla in the mouth, she only hopes the future mental breakdown doesn’t come at an inconvenient time.

For now, she settles for fielding any questions that Alistair doesn’t have the head for. Temporarily, of course.

“Good idea, Morrigan.” Nova rakes a hand through white hair and smooths over her face, hoping the bruises under her eyes are hidden well by the arcing purple design of her vallaslin. She wills herself to look like a more presentable and less irritated leader, if only for a moment. “If those clouds are any indication, the rivers will flood quite a bit tonight.”

“Of course it’s a good idea. I’ve smelled rain for at least the past half-day. This land will be slop by the evening.” Morrigan’s tone is as condescending as usual, but Nova catches an expression akin to approval.

“To higher ground, then,” Sten rumbles.

The clearing they find is on the crest of a hill overlooking the unfortunate, Blight-ravaged lands to the south. Sten and Alistair help push Bodahn’s cart up the steep slope while Leliana directs them around sharp rocks, fallen logs, and sunken fox holes. Morrigan shifts into a cat to scout ahead, leaving Nova alone to merely watch the teamwork unfold.

At the top, the wind cuts through the trees with a horrible howling, but the power behind it is thankfully muted by the time it reaches the camp site. The air smells cleaner here compared to the valleys; the stink of mud and dog gives way to fresh grass and tree bark. It’s also wet here—as all of Ferelden is—but at least the rain won’t pool in their tents.

Camp is set with little fanfare beyond Bodahn offering to sell larger backpacks or ale or delicate little cakes. Leliana quietly contributes to pitching the tents as Sten builds the fire. Morrigan almost-kindly offers her cooking talent to the group when it becomes clear that Alistair wouldn’t be eating.

(Yet the offer hinges on a deal between herself and Nova that the dog shall stay at least one hundred feet from her tent at all times. They shook on it, and Nova felt a skitter of magic cross her heart when she did.)

Alistair retires to his tent immediately after it’s pitched, mumbling something about the rain. The rest, meanwhile, try their best to ignore the fat raindrops falling into their stew and dampening the fire. The winds pick up soon, though, and each withdraw to their tents to hide from the weather.

By the time Nova decides to pack it in, Bodahn and Sandal have retired to the confines of their wagon. Hell, even the mabari is miserable; he quietly whines until her will breaks, and she invites him in the tent.

“Now we’ll both smell like wet dog,” she whines playfully and earns a lick. With a quiet laugh, she pushes him to the end of the bedroll and settles in for a long, wet night.

 

Nova awakens to the sound of rain. The tent canvas is dark, assuring her it isn’t morning. Yet surely, something had awoken her. The war hound sleeps soundly at the foot of the bedroll, warming the tent with his mass. The rain is loud, but it’s a comforting, droning sound, lacking any thunder or wind. She pauses, waiting for…something. Her muscles tense, expecting the draw of a knife, the twang of a bow, the growl of darkspawn—

Instead, she hears a muffled, watery gasp coming from the tent closest to her own.

Oh.

Nova sighs and lets the tension and adrenaline fade. She winds the leather twine from the pendant from her Joining around her fingers, weaving them in and out and back again.

This has been a common occurrence no matter where she goes. Clan Sabrae was not without it’s hardships. With the freedom of their nomadic life also came great sorrow, at times. Nights would often be peppered with children crying over the loss of a parent, hunters sobbing through their injuries, or flat-ears remembering the life they used to have.

More than once, Nova herself was the one whose sorrow interrupted the sleep of her clan mates.

Since joining the Grey Wardens, this trend hasn’t much changed. What she and Alistair went through at Ostagar would’ve broken weaker men. But while they still struggle and fight back against the darkness, they were not left unscathed.

The other warden infrequently allows himself nights to break down. He’ll be subdued during the day, refuse dinner, and retire to bed. He’s remarkably quiet about it all, but she supposes she only knows because of her tent placement. Being the last of the Grey Wardens and the only two people willing to be within spitting distance of a mabari war hound, they tend to camp close together and a bit further away from the group.

The problem with his breakdowns is that she doesn’t know how to react to them.

Surely if he wanted attention or consolation, he would be more open about his grief. If he needed help, he would probably ask her for it. After all, subtly certainly isn’t one of Alistair’s strengths. But because he hides it in the night, Nova feels uncomfortable approaching the subject.

Listening to his gentle sniffles in the dark, she’s overcome with a memory from long ago. A time before wardens and darkspawn. Before daggers and poisons.

 

The night that Nova’s childlike curiosity drove her to ask Ashalle about her parents was one of the most important days of her life. To this day, she is unsure why she asked, or what made her think she would receive a different answer this time. All she remembers is the compulsion to finally know. 

“Ashalle,” she began, and the talented fingers intricately braiding her white hair paused. “I know I do not have parents like other children but…why? Why am I raised by you and the clan instead of them?”

“You know better than to ask this of me, I think,“ Ashalle tells her kindly, but firmly.

“I know I have asked before who they were and you would not answer,” Nova said smartly, as if it was just a clever riddle to solve. “Now, I am asking _why_ —“

“The Dalish do not morbidly poke and prod at wounds of the past, child,” Ashalle’s voice was hard, like jagged chips of stone on the riverbank. “You will not ask of them again.“

“But this is not _fair_ —“

“What is not fair? It is not fair to be Dalish? Are you not proud of your heritage? Would you rather join the flat-ears in the alienage, where humans keep them confined like animals, like beasts?” Ashalle's voice was angry in a way Nova had never heard before and it scared her into speaking her mind.

“It is not fair that Tamlen gets parents and all I get is you!”

Nova ripped her hair out of Ashalle’s hands, panting and red-faced. She had overheard stories of magelings summoning the elements during an emotional time and she had known she was the correct age for it. For just a moment, she swore she could feel fire at her fingertips, thrumming through her veins and scorching her heart.

Ashalle rooted Nova with a stare. For years, Nova had thought it was pity. In retrospect, she can recognize it as the look a hunter gives an injured animal, just before the mercy kill.

Quietly, carefully, Ashalle told her what she already knew to be true.

“They are dead, Nova. They will not come back for you. I…I am sorry, but I am all you have.” 

Nova remembers feeling small. So young and so burdened with sorrow that her tiny form couldn’t keep it all in, and so it welled outwards in heavy, racking sobs. She remembers the dewy grass beneath her feet, the constellations above her head, and her name catching on the wind as she ran.

It was no secret where she ran off to. The moment the aravels stopped moving, the children had claimed the biggest tree they could climb. Since then, the clan had allowed them their personal fortress—if only to make it simple to find them when they were late to supper.

Still, it was the only place she knew to go and at the time, she was sure that just a moment of quiet solitude would make the answer she received make sense. Or at least hurt less.

Ashalle did not come. The hunters did not come. She wept a long while, cradled only in the boughs of the tree, loud enough to mask the footsteps approaching her.

A mop of blonde hair and a spatter of freckles followed small hands that reached toward her branch. His eyebrows were furrowed in dismay, mouth open to show the gap his tooth left when it fell out a tenday before.

“Nova?”

“Tamlen?” Her voice was thick and hoarse and did no favors to pronouncing his name. 

“I heard Ashalle calling for you. Are…are you okay?” Tamlen struggled a little, but managed to carefully climb onto her branch without straining it. 

“No, and I will never be okay again!” Nova’s tears returned in a wave and sent out another wail to echo into the forest and startle the nearby fauna.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

“No!” she warbled. And she truly didn’t. She didn’t want to give voice to the pain she felt. She couldn’t put into words the jealousy she felt of her friend’s parents. She wouldn’t dare speak of the shame that came from treating Ashalle with such disrespect.

Tamlen looked at her from across the branch for a while. Finally, he dug out a pouch and carefully emptied the contents into his lap. He picked a few objects out and put the rest away. He waited patiently for the violent sobs to pass, when fat tears and sad whimpers were all her tired body could manage. 

“Hold out your hands.”

Exhausted and confused, she held them out to him. He gently took one hand and placed it against the bark beneath her.

“When I am sad, it helps me to focus,” he explained and placed his own hand beside hers. “Touch the tree.”

Nova quietly touched the tree, as instructed. The bark felt cold and hard beneath her uncalloused hands, and sticky with sap. Tamlen nodded as he pulled her hand back and placed a little bundle of dried pine needles in her palm. 

“Smell it.”

It smelled familiar, though the aravels hadn’t moved through pine forests in a few years, at least. It pulled from her memories of holding Ashalle’s hand as it was their turn to walk beside the aravels. Tottling footsteps as she tried to keep pace, and the strong arms that lifted her when she could not. The sharp, green scent cut through her runny nose.

Tamlen took the bundle back and replaced it with a lock of fur. As white as her own hair, it was short, tickled her skin, and was bound together with a short leather string.

Nova smelled this as well, needing no instruction. Gamey, yet clean. The unmistakable scent of halla. It brought to her mind a clear picture of beautiful, twisting horns and long, strong legs. It also brought a memory of Ashalle first lifting her to eye level with a halla, and the blessed feeling it gave her. Her breathing evened as she thought on it.

Tamlen took the fur as well and replaced it with a final gift: a child's handful of berries. They were a little squished and the juices stained her hands the prettiest shade of purple. Nova remembered berry picking with Ashalle two moons before and staining a strip of leather with the dye they had made from it.

Tamlen laughed a little, took one from her hand, and ate it. Nova picked one up as well, gently placed it in her mouth, and reveled in the taste as they burst. One by one, they ate in silence and only after did she realize she had stopped crying. When they were finished, she carefully went to his side of the branch and hugged him tightly.

“Thank you, Tamlen. I do not think anyone else would…” she trailed off, unsure if she should admit it. “No one but you came after me.”

“You are my best friend, Nova.” He shrugged his shoulders before he returned the embrace. “I will always be there for you.”

 

A particularly loud sob from Alistair startles her from the memory. Nova swallows the lump in her throat and swipes a hand across her eyes. She throws a cloak on over her clothes, lights the hip lantern on her belt, and gently shakes the dog awake.

“Come now, Tamlen. There’s a bone in it for you if you help me cheer up Alistair.”

Two big, intelligent eyes crack open only to squeeze shut in a big yawn. With a stretch, Tamlen dutifully trots out of the tent, careful not to knock over any poles. Nova follows close behind, redirecting him with a few discreet clicks. 

“Bodahn first. Lamb or ox?”

She receives a deep boof in reply. 

“Ox it is.”

Nova peeks inside the traders’ wagon and thankfully sees a dim lantern still lit within. She knocks quietly to bother anyone sleeping, but loudly enough to be heard over the rain.

“Bodahn? Sandal? Can I have a quick look at your wares?”

“Anything for my favorite Warden!” The wagon door cracks open and Bodahn’s face peeks out. “What can I get for you?”

“A piece of quartz, if you have any, please, and one of those little fancy cakes.”

The mabari whines low at her hip.

“Oh! And an ox bone.”

“Midnight snacking, eh? You know, in my day, we had second supper ‘round this time. Dreadful how folk up here are expected to starve through the night—“ his voice trails off as he retreats deeper within the wagon to fetch the items. A moment later and she’s given what she asked for, in exchange for a handful of coin.

“Thank you, Bodahn, I appreciate this.”

“Have a good evening, lass. And go easy on the bone marrow, you!” He shakes a finger at Tamlen, who gives a quiet boof around the bone in return. 

“Put the bone away somewhere dry, for now. This comes first.”

A little horrified, she watches as the dog trots into her tent to deposit the bloody ox bone. With a small prayer to the gods that it wasn’t on the bedroll, she takes a moment to dig through a pouch looped through her belt.

Under the vials of poisons, a whetstone, and a little fish knife, she finds it: a small bale of halla fur. It was the only thing she brought from her clan before she left with Duncan.

There wasn’t…they never found a body. With nothing left, Nova wasn’t able to take the original as a keepsake, nor return his father’s bow or his mother’s favorite hunting knife to the clan where they belong. She was left with nothing but memories and crudely made replicas. Moments before leaving the clan, she had whispered to the halla her desire and received permission to cut a bundle of fur from the eldest’s shining tail. Though it’s been through much since she first cut it, it still smells of home.

Nova holds the tightly-bound halla fur over her heart, takes a deep breath, and pushes into the tent.

 

Her fellow warden is sitting in his bedroll, nearly hugging his knees. In the flickering light of the hip lantern, she can tell his face is splotched red and wet from tears and snot both. Without his heavy armor on, he looks…small. Vulnerable, in more ways than one. The long sleeves of his shirt are pulled down to cover his hands as he smears them across his face to sop up the mess. 

“Alistair…?”

He’s startled out of a particularly rough sob as she enters and his knees fall open as he sits up. Tamlen, a giant in these cramped quarters, pushes past her and rests his massive head onto his lap. Ferelden instinct takes over from there as Alistair begins to absentmindedly scratch behind Tamlen’s ears as he stammers through a congested nose. 

“I…Nova? Maker, I didn’t wake you, did I? I didn’t mean…I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to…what are you doing?”

As he struggles to hide his face—now red from tears and embarrassment—Nova settles herself down next to him atop his bedroll, knees folded gently beneath her. She’s close enough to feel the body heat radiating off of him and smell the stink of sweat from a rough day.

Nova holds a hand out to him, which Alistair stares at blankly. She gently takes the hand that’s not petting the dog and puts it in her own, kindly ignoring how wet it is. His composure threatens to break under scrutiny and she watches calmly as his lips begin to wobble and his eyes tear up again. She softly squeezes his hand in affirmation.

“Duncan was a good man and an important person in your life. You’re allowed to mourn him.”

The floodgates break as he collapses in on himself with a sob. Nova gently tugs at him until he willingly falls onto his side, toward where she sits. His head atop her knees, she pets his hair, gently pushing it back and away from his face.

They stay like that for as long as it takes for him to calm down. The canvas of the tent is still dark, and Tamlen hasn’t yet fallen asleep. The rain continues to fall to the ground in an arrhythmic beat, if slower than before. The tent is hot and humid now from the two extra bodies crammed into the tight space. 

Once Alistair’s cries become more manageable, Nova pauses her ministrations momentarily. She shifts to gain access to a bag at her side that has Tamlen sniffing the air at the sweet scent. First, she takes out the piece of quartz she had bought earlier, slipping it into one of his hands which curl around it almost immediately.

“Feel the texture of the stone: the highest point, the rough underside. The smooth, glassy planes of one side, the craggy pits of the rock it grew out of. It’s a cold, hard stone…but you change it just by holding on. The warmth of your hand will heat it just as if it were alive.”

Her voice is soft and low, as if he were an animal to avoid startling. Alistair sniffles as he brings the mineral to his face and she watches him pet it gently, with intent. she waits for his breaths to even and his hiccups to stop before she holds a hand out to take it back, meaning to replace it with the halla fur bundle. There is a pause as she stares at it in silence. Cautiously, she hands him one of the most precious items she owns. 

This, he examines with more interest. He brushes a thumb over the leather strap, feeling the difference in texture on each side. He pets the fur itself, marveling at how the lantern light shines golden against it. Then, to her surprise, he leans in and smells it.

“Deer…?” he asks, small and curious.

Nova takes the bundle from him without answering, ear points burning with embarrassment. Of course a shemlen wouldn’t hold the same understanding or memories of halla as her people do. She feels foolish for not thinking to gather wet leaves or a handful of Tamlen’s short fur or a cup of Ferelden mud. She places it back in the bag and grabs the cake, instead.

“You haven’t eaten yet,” she tells him. He looks at the cake hesitantly, torn between his legendary Grey Warden appetite and the obstinate self-destruction he attempted to nurture by skipping supper.

“Eat,” she implores. At the order, the war hound raises his head and eyes the treat jealously. Alistair, sensing his food is in danger, acts quickly to scoop the cake out of the dog’s reach. Nova winks at Tamlen, receiving a snort in reply.

Alistair sits up to admire the little cake. It’s small, made even tinier in the center of his large hands. Neither of them have eaten one yet, for good reason: the cost of buying the absurd amount necessary to satiate either warden has led to them avoiding the things entirely, until now. He picks at it, tearing off laughably-modest pieces at a time and savoring every bit. Nova, still satisfied from Morrigan’s stew, is content experiencing the too-sweet icing smell that fills the cramped space. When it’s finally gone, he takes a long, deep breath. 

“I feel like apologizing, but something tells me you wouldn’t accept it. So, thank you. I…it’s been hard for me and I appreciate you. This. I’ve never had anyone…well, no one’s ever cared enough to…” Alistair coughs, embarrassed once again. “Anyway…thanks.”

“Any time, Alistair. But let’s keep it to one cake per day, deal?” Nova nudges her elbow into his ribs and he laughs genuinely.

“Fair enough! So…if I may ask, was that something they taught you in your clan? Was that like a…I don’t know, a Dalish mourning ceremony?”

Nova blinks, startled for an instant before erupting into fits of laughter.

“A ‘Dalish mourning ceremony’?” She attempts desperately to mute the laughter through her hands, sure that she’ll wake their other traveling companions. “Is _that_ what they teach you in your Chantries? That everything the Dalish do is some sort of anti-Maker cult ritual?”

“Well, now you’re just insulting me,” Alistair’s sputters indignantly. “I’ll have you know, I didn’t pay attention to anything in the Chantry that wasn’t breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Or the occasional fire drill.”

“Well, I _did_ bring cake for you, just in case your mind wandered.”

“You’ve cut me deep, my lady, you truly have.” His laugh settles, but the smile stays on his face, much to Nova's relief.

“To answer your question, the Dalish don’t believe in poking at past hurt. But there are some that believe some wounds need to be…lanced, so to speak.” Nova watches him wrinkle his nose at the analogy. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “A…friend showed this to me, long ago.”

Alistair has enough sense to feel the tension in her response and thankfully lets it go.

“So…was I right?” He glances toward the bag at her belt. “About the fur, I mean. I like guessing games as much as the next man, but only if I win. Strange that they’re only fun _after_ you’re given the answer. The whole _guessing_ process is actually a bit infuriating, if you think about it.”

Nova pulls the halla fur bundle from the pouch, handing it to Alistair for further inspection. He turns it over in his hands, examining it again before giving another quick sniff.

“It _is_ deer, right? It’s too straight to be lamb or sheep, but not gamey enough to be some sort of…I don’t know, rare white boar. Unless…”

He pauses, looking between the bundle of fur and Nova’s own white hair. 

“Unless I just put my foot in my mouth with that one,” Alistair begins to panic a little. “I, for one, think it’s great that you embrace this whole ‘children of the forest’ thing that the Dalish have. Very humble. And you know, many men like their women…um…gamey.”

Nova laughs, whacking his arm playfully, which he takes to dramatically rubbing it.

“No, it’s not _mine_. It’s _halla_ fur. They’re…well, alright they’re similar to deer, from a shem’s point of view, anyway. They have pure white fur and these long, twisting horns. They carry our aravels—the landships—for us.”

“So I _was_ right! Sort of. Well, close enough, anyway.”

Their laughter dies down into a quiet, tired sigh each. Tamlen picks up on the mood and awakens fully, stretching out and heading towards the tent flap. 

“Well, I think I’ve kept you from sleep long enough. Thank you again, Nova. I…really appreciate your help. You’re a good—“ he cuts himself off, just as uncertain about their relationship as she is.

“Person?” she supplies him. “Elf? Traveling companion? Fellow work associate?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. I take everything back, you’re just as much a menace to society the Chantry warned me about.”

“And don’t you forget it. Goodnight, Alistair.”

Nova stretches her legs out from under her and playfully ruffles his hair before following the dog outside.

 

In the middle of camp, she pops the cork on a particularly caustic fire bomb she made earlier and pours the contents into the fire pit. It ignites instantly, smelling gently of burnt fat and black smoke. It begins to warm her bones and dry her clothes, though she knows it will only last as long as the fuel does. 

Tamlen steps into her tent briefly to fetch his new bone. She watches as he goes, marveling at the thoughtful way he avoids dragging the bloodied bone against the tent canvas. The mabari rivals the intelligence she has witnessed in the halla of Clan Sabrae and it calms her soul to have one imprinted with her. He spreads out on the ground nearest her, safely away from the fire, to gnaw contently on the ox femur.

Quietly, secretly, she pulls out the halla fur and says a small prayer in elven, absorbed at once by the sizzling of the fire.

“Creators, grant me the knowledge to help these people, the courage to end the Blight, and the strength to endure my sorrow in the coming days.”

Nova looks down at the mabari— _her_ mabari—and swallows the lump in her throat. At first, she was adverse to naming a creature so intelligent. But almost impulsively, she named him after both the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow she’s ever known. Her personal war hound has come to represent both a fierce partnership, and her own trivial rebellion against the culture of her people. She never believed that ignoring old pain would make it go away.

And neither did he.

“Good boy, Tamlen.” The short, stubby nub of his tail wags excitedly as his chest rumbles a response.

Staring into the fire, she can nearly see his face. In the hissing of waterlogged wood, she can almost hear his voice. In the wet leaves and dewy grass, she can nearly smell him. 

“I miss you, lethallin. Every single day.”

Nova settles into a comfortable position to wait out the night, sure that sleep will continue to evade her while there is still a job to be done. Looking up, she notices with a bittersweet smile that rain has stopped. The sky above has cleared of the dark clouds and the stars shine down upon her little campsite as she guards it from the night.


	2. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh thank the Maker you're here! Please, someone attacked our caravan just ahead! You must help us!”
> 
> The sight of yet another panicked woman doesn’t register as strange to Nova. She takes in the newcomer with a sort of exasperated interest. The woman wears a modest dress, but it’s curiously spotless. The voice inflects fear, but the body language does not. These are all things she should have noticed, would usually have noticed.
> 
> But they're so tired.
> 
> So instead, she says: “Show us.”

With Redcliffe relatively safe at their backs, the Wardens take point, allowing the others to relax. Alistair and Nova are dragging their feet sluggishly through the mud, plagued by nightmares as they are. Their level of exhaustion is followed closely by Morrigan, whose trip to the Fade seems to have been much more taxing than she’s letting on.

Nova’s confining boots are heavier than usual as she stomps through the puddles along the road. Alistair drowsily bumps into her every so often, jostling them to attention as the clink of his shield hitting her daggers startles them both. Meanwhile, Nova isn’t quite sure if Morrigan is stepping on her heels by accident or as payback for sending her into the Fade. Leliana has been attempting to bribe Sten to carry her in exchange for cookies, but so far he has yet to relent. Overall, only Tamlen is staying strong: having spent most of his time doing war hound things, like happily dismantling the skeletal warriors while his little tail wagged furiously.

Nova’s own reflexes are sluggish as a woman scrambles from around a bend in the path. She feels herself and Alistair jump as the stranger begins to shout.

“Oh thank the Maker you're here! Please, someone attacked our caravan just ahead! You must help us!”

The sight of yet another panicked woman doesn’t register as strange to Nova. She takes in the newcomer with a sort of exasperated interest. The woman wears a modest dress, but it’s curiously spotless. The voice inflects fear, but the body language does not. These are all things she should have noticed, would usually have noticed.

But they're so _tired._

So instead, she says: “Show us.”

As the group rounds the bend, they have little time to take in the scene. Her instincts say that most of the exits are blocked, but not why. There are a number of hunting traps set along the road, but not the forest. The elvhen man in the center is much too dark for an elf native to Ferelden. The half-asleep part of her wonders idly what country exists that makes elves so dark and beautiful.

Nova watches through a fog as the woman jogs toward the elvhen man. The tattoo on his face shifts slightly to bend and curl with his cocky smirk. The nod of the woman’s head is less obvious than the man’s almost stereotypical signal for “attack”. A number of swordsmen come out from around the wreckage while a clutch of archers lean forward, looking out over the shelf that carries them.

Oh. A trap.

Heart plummets into stomach as adrenaline kicks in, warming her muscles and tingling in her fingertips. In a flash, daggers are in her hands, thumbs already releasing the snaps to the poison pouches on each hip. She pulls out a vial from each, flicking the stoppers off and coating each dagger generously.

In the beginning, this flourish was designed to be showy: something to upstage Tamlen’s superior marksmanship. But the movement has been streamlined over the past few weeks of endless battles to be the quickest way to get poison to dagger. If Nova was any less tired, she’d have seen the impressed look the assassin gave her. Daggers are at the ready with seconds to spare, and she spends them as wisely as she can.

“Eyes up, swords down.”

It’s not the cleverest analogy, but it’s simple and easy to remember. Their “eyes” will focus on the shelf of archers above, leaving the “swords” to fend off the attackers below. Morrigan huffs in annoyance, magic sputtering to life around her. Leliana knocks an arrow and drags the tip across a rock, igniting the bit of grease at the end. Alistair shrugs the shield off his shoulder with a heave, banging his sword against it to gain attention. Sten almost makes a show of drawing his long sword: his imposing frame casting far shadows in the late afternoon sun. Tamlen, meanwhile, growls low and steady, always ready to fight.

Nova takes a beat to size up the elvish man who seems to be in charge. Mouth set in a line, she notes that he, too uses two weapons. Foggy mind spins to life as she runs through possible tactics, one by one. He’ll aim for the long range fighters first, most likely: it’s what she would do. If he’s anywhere near as quick as he looks, he could slip by Sten and Alistair easily enough. He’ll take out Leliana first, before she can pull a dagger, then take out the mage. With Morrigan fresh from the Fade, Nova isn’t sure she could fend off a frontal assault.

“Leave the elf to me.”

Nova spins the daggers around her hands: part nerves, part arrogance. She hears a smooth chuckle from across the field, punctuated by the twang of the first arrow being shot. Leliana’s arrow is deflected smoothly by the elf’s blades to sink deep into the nearby wreckage of a cart, flames slowly spreading. Nova’s veins turns to ice. He’s _much_ more skilled than he looks.

Racing forward, she side steps the few enemies closest to her, trusting in the warriors to protect the rest. An arrow whizzes past her left ear as she just barely avoids its trajectory. Two men stand before her, directly in the way of the elf. The wreckage on either side bottlenecks the path, meant to restrict movement.

Thinking quickly, she runs across the side of the cart not on fire and kicks off, landing with both blades sunk into one of the men’s chest. As the second one gapes, she pushes off the ground like a spring, burying a blade into his neck. She removes it too quickly, too sloppy: the blood spurts out, blinding her momentarily. As she wipes furiously at her eyes, she hopes that the elf wasn’t able to pass her by to attack Leliana or Morrigan—

Pain shoots through her arm, followed quickly by the warmth of blood. The small knife thrown at her clatters somewhere behind but there’s no time to look. Instantly, he’s before her with both daggers gleaming in the sun. Nova maneuvers to block his path, intending to bodily stop him from attacking the backlines. He dances around her with skill and too soon he’s behind, peppering her back with small, shallow cuts.

Wincing, she spins to a crouch, ready to dart in his direction but when she turns, he’s upon her again. Relentlessly slicing at thick leather, shearing through it as easily as paper. They trade blows: metal clashing against metal, flesh rent and torn under its edge. Wounds open like magic across both bodies, one after the other: warmth leeches from them both as it seeps from each cut to fall onto the cooling ground. His back to her companions, he has eyes only for her. Adrenaline fogs her mind, instinct burying any errant thoughts she may have. With it, comes a sort of clarity.

“You’re here to kill _me.”_

The elf smirks devilishly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He backs away to stand—straight and confident—as he circles his prey. Close and still as he is, Nova can see the fine leather he wears, oiled regularly and worn in. Not expensive, but certainly not cheap: it looks to be tailor-made to his form. His daggers shine from being polished and sharpened often, but small chips and blemishes mark them as well-used. His hair, like her own, is pure vanity: their work is conducive to short, cropped styles.

“You are very perceptive. Although, you are very slightly wrong.” He makes a show of ignoring the enemy before him to glance over his shoulder, toward the rest of the fighting.

The archers above have halved in numbers in the few minutes of battle already. A few are too pale with blackened veins visible through translucent skin. Morrigan looks pale, but holds the curse on them with one hand, as the other flings magic at the rest. Leliana stands tall next to her in spite of the few arrows sticking out of her body, firing flaming arrows at the cursed men one after the other.

Just ahead of them, Sten and Tamlen work in tandem to take down enemies. Two swings of Sten's sword is more than sufficient to knock one over in spite of the cuts that slash across his large arms. As each enemy hits the ground, Tamlen is upon them to rip into soft, exposed flesh while taking a few dagger swipes from the onlookers. Their teamwork is met with cooperation from the enemy as well: a group of five or six men have peeled off to focus Sten exclusively.

Nova follows the elf’s line of sight and she finds her fellow Warden’s fight is obscured by the army fending off Sten. But she can see enough. The sun reflects off of Alistair’s shield as he’s pushed back by a large man with a hammer. He winces as he drops to one knee, sweat pouring from his brow. He pushes his shield hard enough to repel the hammer, for now, but she can see the sizable dent in the metal.

“He is quite handsome, don’t you agree?” The elf turns to her and winks.

Her anger boils. Fire runs through her veins, she can feel it as sure as she’s breathing. Eyes burn and mouth goes dry. The little cuts that cover her body weep blood and it scorches her skin.

_“No.”_

The word is firm and loud, full of as much venom as she’s capable of. It isn’t an answer to his question, but an argument against his intent. He understands and sighs dramatically.

“You don’t have much a choice, I’m afraid. The surviving Grey Wardens must die.” Daggers only limply hang from his hands: he's no longer treating her as a serious threat. He circles to his original position: defensive and back towards a wall. It’s a smart move to put her between him and Leliana’s deadly aim as the archer rapidly runs out of targets.

But it’s suicidal to back himself into a corner when she’s pissed off.

Her demeanor shifts from dangerous to deadly. It’s subtle: her breath quiets and knees loose as she slips into a crouch. She has mediocre bow talent and never favored longer weapons like Tamlen did, but daggers… Daggers made up for the fault of being born without claws, without teeth. The years of hunting with her clan have taught her how to crouch like the mountain lion, how to sprint like the wolf, how to collapse on prey like the bear.

This change has been playfully dubbed “darkspawn mode” by Alistair. When Nova fights people, she does so with a part of her restrained. The Blight has driven many to desperation and there is no glory in cutting down a peasant with a stolen sword. But the darkspawn…they are death itself. Nova grants no mercy to darkspawn when each one she faces could be the one that accosted Ostagar, that blighted her, that _took Tamlen._

The cart burning next to her collapses in on itself to send embers spinning through the air like dust motes. The smoke catches on the wind and regrettably drifts toward the field. The poison on her daggers was left buried in the bodies of the men she fell earlier, but she doesn’t have the mind to replace it. Nova bolts toward the assassin, forgoing any flashy or impressive dagger work for power.

Cold steel and hot anger clash against the assassin's blades: his own lifted defensively on instinct. He winces as she pushes forward until his heels are to the rocky wall behind him. He looks both surprised and a little desperate as he plants a foot against the wall and _pushes._ She’s repelled for the moment, stumbling backward from the force as an ankle catches on a piece of wreckage. He takes the opportunity to bend over and toss a handful of the dusty road at her face. Her eyes, already irritated from blood and smoke, clamp shut against her will.

The assassin lets out a small hum of victory: a mistake. Sensitive ears catch the noise, head snapping to face him with eyes closed. A dagger flies from her hands, guided only by instinct and intent. He grunts in pain and her ears follow the sound. A second dagger leaves her hand, punctuated by another painful moan. Nova approaches with deadly accuracy as she scrubs at her damaged eyes.

When she's finally able to open them, she finds a dagger buried into the meat of his right thigh. He grits his teeth and pulls it out, letting it fall with a clatter to the ground. It bleeds slow, but steady; she missed an artery, but it was deep enough to inhibit his movement. The other is pulled from his stomach with a grimace and flows more freely, blooming across his leathers like ink in water.

His anger, his desperation telegraphs his movement. Snarling, he lunges: a wolf caught in a trap. Her hands free of weapons, she catches his wrist as he swings and he’s disarmed with a twist. She winds back and punches his face hard enough for it to bounce against the rock behind him, the skin on his tattooed cheekbone splitting from the impact. Dazed, he drives his last dagger into her stomach, leaving it inside with a twist of his own. The adrenaline and anger doesn’t let her feel much of it yet, but it’s nothing she hasn’t come back from. She leaves it inside for now, jutting out just above her hip bone.

Nova can’t be sure of how long the head wound will inhibit him, so she moves quickly. Grabbing a fistful of his leathers, she shoves him to the left, forcing him to keep his balance on his injured right leg. As it buckles under him, she watches impassively as his expression flits through confusion, surprise, and regret.

The elf hits the ground hard and she’s upon him, weighing down his hips and pinning his arms beneath her. Nova tosses each dagger away and out of reach. Leaning over the assassin, she flips her disheveled hair to one side. With a grunt, she takes the dagger out of her hip, ignoring the torrent of blood that stains the ends of white hair red. She lines up the blood-slicked dagger with the soft spot just under his rib cage. Under her, she hear him sputter out a mirthless laugh.

“You know, you may be surprised to hear that this is not the first time a mark was on top of me. Though admittedly, there was much less armor involved.” The assassin’s eyes are unable to focus from the head injury and likely, the blood loss from his stomach wound. They’re amber and bright as the sun begins to set behind her. She hesitates, curiosity getting the better of her.

"You do this type of work _often,_ then?" she huffs, adjusting her weight to keep him confined. Her voice is rough for some reason, throat dry and inflamed. The smoke swirls around them in dark clouds and she coughs off to the side. The elf's laugh is smooth and easy. It cuts through her anger and she looks away as if it would help. The sound makes him more relatable, makes him more of a person than an enemy. She feels her convictions waning, along with the adrenaline.

"Of course I do. I _am_ an assassin, after all." When he smiles up at her, blood stains his teeth. He must have bit his tongue when she punched him, or at least loosened a few teeth. She sighs, exasperated.

"I know that much already. Who do you work for? Who hired you?"

"Is it time for interrogation already? Very well. I was hired by a Ferelden… An angry, pale man. I believe his name was… Loghain? You threaten him greatly, or at least enough to hire one of us. We are not cheap."

Nova's heart sinks. She doesn't doubt the assassin's words. Loghain was desperate and vile enough to stage the events of Ostagar. His actions led directly to the murder of King Cailan and the eradication of every Grey Warden in Ferelden, save herself and Alistair. Would Loghain hire an assassin to take them out? Absolutely. She's only surprised at how long it took.

“There are worse ways to die, I suppose, than being straddled by a beautiful woman—” His words are cut off as a dribble of blood runs from the corners of his mouth.

“It may be the head wound talking, but I cannot seem to look away.”

Her stomach churns. It’s stupid, she knows it is, but the blood dripping from his mouth looks like a vallaslin— _his_ vallaslin—and for a moment, she’s in the cave standing before the damned mirror, the heavy smell of decay, head swimming, throat tight, pulse stuttering, Tamlen at her side screaming:

_“Nova, help! It saw me! I can’t look away—”_

The assassin is still speaking, but she can’t hear him over the blood roaring in her ears. The adrenaline sends a final burst through her system, leaving her feeling panicked and weak. She stumbles off of him, foolishly dropping the dagger within his reach, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he appears consigned to his fate and stays on the ground.

Nova vomits into the dirt a few feet away, shaking violently on her hands and knees.

“Not now, please, not now,” she chants to herself as she rides out the nausea and flashback. She spits the last of the bile from her mouth and pauses. Mind sluggish, she can’t recall eating anything black lately. The assassin laughs around a mouthful of blood, turning his head toward her from where he remains spread-eagle on the ground.

“It appears we will both die here, then,” he tells her wistfully. “It would be much more romantic without the vomit, I admit, but alas.”

Her breakdown is shelved to make room for confusion. Nova mentally assesses her injuries. Sure, she’s tired and a bit cut up, but nothing in particular feels mortal. Unless the hip wound is much more dire than she thought, she’ll be alright. But with the panic gone, her veins still feel like fire, head still pounds, mouth still dry. Feverish, but not dying. This is a pain she has felt before: crying out for Tamlen in a fitful sleep, driven to her knees during her Joining.

_Darkspawn blood._

Nova covers her face, a sound akin to a muffled sob is muted by her hands. The elf sighs again, dramatic and loud. 

“You have figured it out then, yes? The small cuts I made were not just for show. Each delivered lethal doses of poison through your system—”

Nova falls backwards from her crouch, breathless with laughter and relief. The elf cracks an eye open, confused but also curious.

“I…must admit, I have never had a mark laugh at me before.” His bravado cracks slightly, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Though your laughter is something to behold. A parting gift, then, as we both die—”

“You-you _poisoned-_ " Laughter splits and breaks her words apart as she struggles to gain control.

The elf looks impatient now and groans through the process of sitting up onto his elbow to watch her as she struggles to compose herself.

“You are certainly taking this well. I was not informed that you were perhaps… Hm, how to put this delicately… Insane? That is as good a word as any. We usually charge extra for that.”

Alistair is the first to reach them. First, he checks Nova over, ensuring any wounds are superficial. He shoves aside the sheet of long hair to examine her face, the matted tendrils swinging around to splat her back with the blood-soaked ends. She bats his hands away and instead grips onto him and he heaves her up to stand. He looks curiously between Nova and the assassin, carefully putting himself between the elves.

“Anything broken? Ribs? Teeth? …Sanity?” Alistair pokes and prods at her as he asks, ensuring he didn't miss anything the first time he checked. Nova finally takes a couple deep breaths and calms herself down, the laughter dying down. Tears make clean tracks through the blood and dirt on her face, which she smears immediately with the side of her hand.

“Creators, I haven’t laughed like that in a long time. The assassin—sorry, what was your name?"

The elf looks at her, head cocked to the side: confused and cautious.

"I…what?"

"Your name. Surely you have one."

"Yes, of course. My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends." Zevran looks dazed as he answers, and Nova wonders if she hit him hard enough to do permanent damage. He reaches a hand around to rub at his head, coming back with a smear of blood. He grimaces at it and wipes it away on his destroyed leathers.

" _Zevran_ here poisoned me with darkspawn blood.”

“Ooh, that’s gonna sting for awhile,” Alistair winces sympathetically, giving her a gentle pat on the back.

“Oh, it already does, trust me. My throat feels like sandpaper,” Nova coughs into an elbow and spits a bit of black on the ground.

Zevran, meanwhile, covers his face with his hands, falling onto the ground with a defeated groan.

“I was _certain_ that vial was fleshrot. Ah well. It appears I will be the only one to die, then. Well, in addition to the rest of my associates you already did away with.” He waves a hand dismissively.

Alistair and Nova look down at the failed assassin, Alistair with faint amusement and Nova with a little pity. Meanwhile, the rest of the group catches up with them. Morrigan looks disheveled: drained, but otherwise unharmed. Leliana is gingerly picking bits of wood and arrowheads from her body with a grimace. Sten looms from behind, his own wounds ignored, in spite of them steadily bleeding. Nova watches the Qunari discreetly palm Tamlen a treat and give him a small pat on the head.

“Soooo…an assassin.” Alistair starts. “Where should I send the thank you card? Is there a return address we can send you to or…?”

“Loghain sent him.”

Alistair’s easy-going attitude disperses entirely. His jaw clenches, face flushed in anger. The dog whines low and steps forward, butting a head against his hand that flexes in and out of a fist, over and over again. Nova gives him time to process, instead turning to Zevran and crouching next to him.

“You said _‘we_ are expensive’, Zevran. Who do you work for, and can we expect more?”

Zevran chuckles darkly and sighs, removing his hands from his face, smearing blood from the gash on his cheekbone. Nova is a little startled to see how pale he is from blood loss.

“I am an Antivan Crow. Or I _was,_ before failing this mission. Now, I am a dead man.”

Leliana looks interested and is temporarily distracted from picking splinters from her wounds. 

“I’ve heard of the Crows. They’re supposed to be legendary assassins,” she pauses, looking over the elf. “ _You’re_ a Crow?”

“As I said, I _was,_ " he says, irritated.

"You aren't dead yet," Leliana supplies. Zevran scowls to himself.

"Ignoring the silver-haired battle goddess who gutted me, I am a dead man. If you do not kill me, the Crows will. Then, the Crows will continue to come after you.” He pauses, a conspiratory smile blooming across his face. “Luckily, you’ve made acquaintance with a highly-skilled assassin who knows their inner workings and could help thwart any future assassination attempts on your lives, provided he lives long enough.”

"If these Crows claim _you_ as 'highly-skilled', then perhaps there is little to worry about," Morrigan sneers.

Zevran winks at her, the effect completely lost when he spits out another glob of blood from his mouth. He groans, throwing an arm across his eyes to block out the setting sun. Morrigan looks appalled, while Sten quietly shakes his head.

“ _Surely_ you aren’t going to trust the man who was hired to kill you?” Morrigan aims her staff at Zevran carefully, ready to stop him if should he move. Sten nods in agreement.

“I agree that this is not a wise course of action,” Sten rumbles.

“The decision will be made for us, if we continue to allow him to bleed out.” Leliana looks thoughtfully at the growing pool of blood seeping into the dirt road. "I think it's a good idea."

Nova looks up at the ragtag group of companions she’s collected since Ostagar, then at Alistair. He’s had ample time to calm down and she won't make a decision until she's heard everyone's opinion. She watches him do the mental math: a Chasind apostate, a Qunari murderer, an Orlesian bard, a war hound, and two Grey Wardens on the run. He sighs, defeated.

“Alright, but _you’re_ in charge of feeding and walking this one.” He shakes his head as he walks away, muttering. “I’m _positive_ you’re part-Ferelden. You have the same uncanny knack for picking up strays.”

Nova smiles at his back, thankful for her friend’s trust. It can’t be an easy thing, taking in the assassin sent to kill them by the man who ruined his life. She makes a mental note to buy the chocolate fancy cakes next time he’s feeling down. She frowns, noting the heavily dented shield. He’ll need a new one of those as well.

“We should set camp nearby. We all need to bind our wounds and rest. Here is as good a place as any, I suppose..”

It wasn’t an order, more of a helpful suggestion. Regardless, they obey and begin to set camp. She watches fondly as they move around her. Leliana hands Morrigan a lyrium potion while the mage waves off whatever compliment is being given. Alistair secures the area, smoothing out the logistical problem of adding another tent to their camp as Sten begins methodically breaking down what's left of the destroyed carts for firewood. Tamlen fetches Nova's pack from where she tossed it at the beginning of the fight. She unbuckles a section and turns it upside down, letting their healing supplies clatter onto the dirt road. One by one, she aligns them in a semi-orderly row. Rolls of bandages, old rags, some antidote, and a number of potions and tinctures are rationed out for their newest recruit.

"So Zevran, are you from Antiva, then?" Nova asks, looking hesitantly at all the blood. She needs to keep him talking until he's stable. With no response, she begins to worry a little. She moves closer to work and decides to feed his vanity, instead. "A pretty accent like yours? I can tell you're not native to Ferelden."

It works. His arm lifts slightly to show one unfocused eye and a smirk. 

“You certainly have fine taste. I am Antivan—Ow!”

Nova presses down hard on his stomach wound, putting steady pressure on it with one hand as she preps a salve with the other. Her own wound rips open a bit more at the movement and she winces in pain. She gingerly turns the free-flowing blood away from him. The darkspawn blood from Zevran's poison and the taint inside of her _should_ be diluted enough to not cause problems. Regardless, she and Alistair have always been overly careful around non-Wardens, just in case.

“I apologize. Morrigan is spent right now, so we can’t rely on spells. Here, hold this in place—“

Zevran quietly watches her work on him, doing as he’s told as best he can. Nova manages to seal his gut wound with minimal additional pain inflicted onto him. With the major injury out of the way, she hands him a bottle of viscous red liquid. Grabbing a rag, she scrubs the dirt, sweat, and blood from her face, then gets to work on her own injuries.

A clean rag and a tincture of Morrigan's sterilizes the wound with a sharp hiss before she pinches the cut closed. Taking a jar of the latest salve Morrigan made, she dabs at her wound gingerly. It’s truly magical: the deep gash knits together, taking at least a week off the healing time.

“You are Dalish, yes?" he asks, suddenly breaking the silence. She’s startled out of her focus: the quiet, methodical work and blood loss are doing her no favors. Her fingers slip across the wound on her hip too rough and she hisses.

“Did the obvious face tattoo give it away?”

His cocky laughter has returned, so he must be feeling better.

“It did. It is quite beautiful, befitting of the lovely canvas beneath it.”

Turning to respond to his obvious attempt at flattery, her words die in her throat. Zevran is sitting up now, leaned over to work on his thigh wound. Light, battle-tangled hair is just barely held in place by a long, pointed ear. His tattoo gently follows the contours of his face and she's painfully reminded of when Tamlen chose his vallaslin. The lines of it played well with his face when he smiled and he knew it.

Growing quiet, she wonders when she'll stop seeing traces of Tamlen everywhere.

Then, she wonders what she'll do with her life when it _does_ stop.

“We should talk.”

“Already? At least wait until morning! There is much I could do to change your mind by then.” Zevran laughs, low and seductive, but it dies down when he sees how serious she looks. “Very well. What do you wish to speak of?”

“I am risking a lot by bringing you onto the team,” she sighs, wrapping her Joining pendant around a finger. “Our duty is above weak, power-hungry humans like Loghain or infamous foreign assassin organizations. I am not being dramatic when I tell you that the fate of the world is at stake."

"The legends of the Grey Wardens are well-known, even in Antiva. My attack on you today was purely business and, as I said, that business is over,” Zevran waves away her concerns.

“There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to return to my clan, to get back what I had. You could choose any day from now to strike us down—No, hear me out,” Nova cuts off Zevran’s protests. “ _If_ that day should come, I have a request.”

“This is all rather macabre, but if it amuses you... What is your request?”

“Today, I spared your life. If a day comes where we outlive our usefulness to you… I ask that you do the same.”

"Ah. So, in this unlikely future where I betray my benefactor and kill all of you in your sleep, you ask that I spare your life."

"Not me."

Nova’s gaze reaches across the cobbled-together campsite and follows Alistair as he struggles with the posts of his tent. The pole slips from his hands with a yelp and Tamlen runs after it. He smiles, taking a break from his work to dote on the mabari. She smiles gently, watching them play a few rounds of fetch before turning back to Zevran.

“Spare him. Bring my head before the… I don’t know, do the Crows have a council? Claim that we’re both dead. Kill me, and leave him in peace. This is all I ask.”

“You care for him,” he says simply.

“I care for _all_ of my friends,” she corrects. “But it's more than that. Alistair is technically my superior, did Loghain tell you that before sending you to kill us?"

"I was given only enough information to do my job." Zevran shakes his head. "Anything more would invite… complications."

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but he doesn't like giving orders. For whatever reason, he and those I travel with listen to me, follow me, obey me. Whatever we have done to invite assassination attempts, I take full responsibility. Alistair…he’s been through a lot. He doesn’t deserve it—any of this—really.”

“And you do?”

His question is soft and she sighs, staring into the setting sun.

_‘What do you say, Nova? Care to do some cave-diving with me?’_

_‘Trust me,_ anything _is better than Varathorn insulting my woodshaping skills all day. Lead the way, Tamlen.’_

“We’ve each done something to put us on this path, Zevran. Some people deserve second chances," she gestures to her companions at camp and then, surprisingly, to him.

"I've already used my second chance, Zevran. Whatever comes my way, I accept it.”

Her Joining pendant is absentmindedly woven around her finger too-tight, cutting off the blood flow and turning the skin a swollen, sickly purple. She loosens it and rubs feeling back into the finger. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Nova attempts to clear the air of seriousness.

“That day may never come,” she concedes with a shrug. “But the option to complete the contract and return home will always be there.”

"I am no longer welcome in the Crows. Even if I completed this contract this instant, they would kill me for failing the first time."

"They would abandon you, just like that?"

Zevran's jaw sets and he grows serious, if only for a moment. With a tone of finality, he tells her:

"Without hesitation."

Nova can tell that this knowledge pains him to admit and they sink into the silence that follows. She can't imagine being cast out of clan Sabrae… it was hard enough leaving voluntarily. She looks at Zevran and her heart aches for his loss. One more man abandoned by the world. One more cast-off for her to collect, in a sad attempt at rebuilding what she had in clan Sabrae before she was taken from it. She wonders if she would have followed the same path as Zevran—becoming an assassin—if she were not tainted. Without Tamlen's even-headed nature to balance her, she is left with excess: rage against the darkspawn that took him, frustration at the loss of her parents before she knew them, the profound loneliness of being Dalish without a clan.

"I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Warden." Zevran's tone is much lighter than before, but still betrays the tiredness of blood loss. "I was not told your names when I accepted the contract. May I know the name of my… captor? Benefactor? …Nurse?"

"How rude of me not to introduce myself to my assassin," she rolls her eyes heavily as he laughs. Smearing as much gore from her hands and onto her leathers as she can, she holds a hand out to shake. "My name is Nova Mahariel."

"I need not be _just_ your assassin." Zevran smirks, bringing the still-bloody fingers to his lips, kissing them gently. Her blood leaves a "I am a man of _many_ talents." Zevran waggles his eyebrows suggestively, succeeding in getting a small laugh from her. 

"As for the nature of our relationship, that depends on you." Nova ignores the lurid look he gives her at this, willing herself to keep a straight face. "Are you willing to do what it takes to stop the Blight and save the world? Will you join me?"

Nova watches him nervously, but he keeps his expression carefully blank. Then, with a pained groan, he maneuvers onto one knee before her. He has a hand against his heart and his head is bowed.

“Grey Warden Nova Mahariel: I, Zevran, do hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, mind and body, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear.”

“I accept your oath. Know this: I protect what’s mine. If anyone comes to harm, I, Grey Warden Nova Mahariel, would hunt them to the ends of the earth."

"And here I thought we were done with threats," Zevran chuckles darkly. "Very well, Warden."

"You misunderstand me." Nova shakes her head with a small smile. "You're _safe_ , Zev. As long as you want to be. As long as you're with us. This _I_ swear.”

Nova stands and gently ruffles his disheveled hair. She walks away, gently swaying from both injury and sleep deprivation, with the intent to find the nearest flat surface to collapse on top of. Tamlen helps her stay the course, nudging her side when he feels her tipping over and receiving head scratches all the while.

With her back turned, Nova doesn't see the way Zevran's hand gently smooths his hair where she mussed it, nor the look of awe he gives her. He gently lays back onto the ground and looks up at the setting sun and sighs.

"Surely I am dead already. I am positive that was an angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to my maladaptive daydream for the past month and a half. She romances Zevran, but has a pretty tight relationship w/ Alistair, since she latched onto him after Tamlen's death. I have a bit of writing for what happened at Redcliffe, but I'm not sure it's that relevant. If I figure out what to do with it, I'll post that too.

**Author's Note:**

> This was hanging around in my head since I started my Dalish playthrough of Origins. I'm unsure on whether I should make a part two or if it's enough to leave on its own.


End file.
